


dear patience

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mugging, Multi, Pining, Pre-Poly, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, SHIELD agent Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: The thing about pining after his best friend and her boyfriend is that Bucky ends up getting stupid drunk just to forget about the ache in his chest for five goddamn seconds.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	dear patience

The thing about pining after his best friend and her boyfriend is that Bucky ends up getting stupid drunk just to forget about the ache in his chest for five goddamn seconds. He has spent the better part of the past two days holed up at SHIELD HQ for mandatory training sessions and recertifications and seminars. And because there are only six level 7 agents – and apparently Steve, Sharon, and Maria were exempt – it was basically just 48 hours of watching Clint and Natasha flirt over firearms and make out in the back of a tiny room while some educational video about safe extraction played.

And normally Natasha probably would’ve invited him to sit with them during most of the seminars, but Clint was gone for two weeks for some undisclosed reason and she hasn’t given Bucky the time of day since he stumbled out of a helicopter looking like hell. Not that he blames her. If _his_ hot, archer boyfriend was gone for two weeks and came back all beat up he’d probably forget that anyone else existed, too.

As it is, Bucky’s still bitter. And jealous. And lonely. Natasha is never going to break up with Clint for him and Clint is never going to _like_ him, let alone give up literally the best woman ever for a severe case of needy and insecure. He just wants someone to _hold_ him.

“I’ll hold you, Buck.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.”

Bucky has apparently reached the level of intoxication that warrants words slipping out of his mouth without him meaning to. He smacks away Steve’s encroaching hands and wraps his good arm around himself while his prosthetic hangs loosely at his side. Fuck, he might cry. He loves them both so much and neither one of them will ever want him like that. Not in a million years. Not when they have each other.

Christ, if Bucky had either of them he’d never let them go.

“I gotta head home, Buck, Sam’s got an early thing and I gotta drive him and,” he tosses his head back and groans, “I don’t wanna pay for a cab.”

Bucky snorts. “Good luck catching literally any train at this hour on the weekend.”

“You gonna be okay?”

The sincerity in his voice makes Bucky straighten up. He’s not about to keep Steve because he’s got his pathetic mopey pining face on.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He signals the bartender for one more beer. “Last one then I’ll head home, too. G’night.”

“Okay.” Steve pats him gently on the shoulder. “See ya.”

Once Steve is gone and Bucky has more alcohol, he drops his forehead onto the bar.

“Pathetic.”

He drinks his beer way too fast, and his stomach starts to hurt and his head starts to spin as he stumbles into the sticky air. It’s nearly _October_ , what the _fuck_. He pats his pockets to make sure he still has his wallet and phone, and squints down the avenue for a cab to hail. He’s just about to put his arm up when he feels hands tugging on his jacket, in his pockets, and suddenly they’re a whole lot lighter.

“Hey!”

His drunken brain doesn’t react until it’s almost too late, but he manages to catch the offender by one wrist and tug his belongings back into his own hands.

“Asshole.”

But then Bucky’s jaw is bursting with pain before he can figure out what’s happening. He loses his footing and ends up on the concrete as his stuff scatters across the sidewalk. And as he goes to grab them, he’s punched again. This time his vision goes for a second, and by the time he’s regained enough wherewithal to open his eyes, the offender is halfway down the street, turning the corner, and Bucky is left with a mouth full of blood and no money in the middle of Brooklyn.

He lives in Manhattan. He doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t know Steve’s phone number because the idiot keeps changing it. 

Bucky whimpers, and starts walking.

He carefully doesn’t think about the direction his feet are taking him. Instead, he focuses on keeping blood from getting all over his favorite hoodie. He thinks about how fucking humid it is and what it’s doing to his hair. He hopes to God that it’s not about to rain because these are his best suede boots and he really can’t afford to buy _another_ pair–

The front door to the apartment complex is unlocked as usual, and the creaky steps to the third floor sound like coming home more than most things do these days. He’s visited Natasha here more times than he can count, even before she’d officially moved in. His knuckles tap on the door, soft and defeated, and a bark sounds from inside. Bucky stares at his shoes, _hard_ , doing his damndest to keep his eyes from watering. God, he hopes they weren’t sleeping–

“James?”

The gentle way his name falls off her lips is what sets him off. Bucky starts crying right there on their doorstep. He’s still drunk. He’s all beat up. He’s a fucking mess.

Hands are on him and he doesn’t know whose– and honestly he doesn’t _care._ They guide him to the couch, shuffling around each other in that way that couples who know each other far too well do without meaning to. It makes Bucky’s heart ache like nothing else.

He feels Natasha, sleep-warm in just a sports bra and sweats, press against his side and run her fingers through his hair. It takes everything in him to not collapse into her. And he’s glad he doesn’t, because strong hands are tilting his chin up and offering a glass of water. Bucky inhales shakily, trying to stop crying, and accepts the glass. They’re being so fucking nice to him and he hasn’t even said _hello_.

“Bucky, sweetheart,” Clint’s crouching in front of him with a horribly concerned look on his face, “Who did this to you?”

Bucky just shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter because in the end he’s still going home by himself, back to his empty apartment where there’s no one to greet him and love him.

“M’sorry,” he says hopelessly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Natasha rubs his back. “Just tell us what happened.”

Bucky does, leaving out the details of the reason he was drinking, the reason he stayed when Steve left. He trips over his words and stutters his way through the story, entirely too focused on the way their attention is on him. It’s all he’s wanted, and it seems fitting that the only time he gets it is when he’s just as black and blue on the outside as he is inside.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Clint stands up, an unreadable look on his face. “I’m gonna get the first aid kit. Nat, get him something comfortable to sleep in, ‘kay?”

Bucky’s heart seizes up. “You don’t have to, I’m gonna go–”

“Hey,” Natasha looks hum carefully in the eye. “It’s okay. You’ve got no money and no phone. It’s the middle of the night. Just stay here. You can sort everything out in the morning. It’s not a bother, okay? We’ve got you.”

Bucky’s heart just about splits in two at that.

When they come back, Clint is quiet. He carefully disinfects the scrapes on Bucky’s hand and wipes the blood off of his chin. Clint cracks an ice pack, presses it gently to the side of Bucky’s face as his eyes dart back and forth between Bucky and Natasha. Every brush of his fingers against Bucky’s skin the most pleasant torture, and coupled with his steady support on the back of Bucky’s neck to keep his head still, Bucky’s a goner.

“You know where everything is,” Clint says softly. “You can shower if you want. But if you’re too tired you can just change and then come up when you’re ready.”

“Up where?”

Clint smiles gently. “The bed’s more than big enough for three. No point in making you sleep on the couch. It’s uncomfortable as _fuck_ , trust me.” He looks at Natasha again. “I mean, like, if you’re okay with sharing. It’s okay if you’re not but–”

“That’s…” Bucky doesn’t know what to say. He looks to Natasha as well. “I don’t–”

Natasha sighs, looking at Bucky with what he thinks is a stupidly fond look. She brings a hand up to rub a thumb across his cheek and he thinks he’s going to start crying again. He nudges into her hand and– fuck, Clint is right there. He snaps back to himself. He really shouldn’t be sharing a bed with either of them, much less both of them.

“It’s okay,” she says.

And maybe it is.

Clint was right, he is too tired, and just changes into a pair of Natasha’s sweatpants (short at the legs) and one of Clint’s t-shirts (wide at the shoulders) and then hovers awkwardly in the doorway of their bedroom with the ice pack still pressed to his face. It’s mostly warm now, but the plastic against his skin is a good distraction from the way Clint and Natasha are rearranging the pillows on the bed.

He accidentally catches Clint’s eyes with his own.

“You comin’?”

Bucky’s intrusive thoughts remind him again, _it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair._

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again. “It’s the middle of the night. I–”

Natasha doesn’t bother with platitudes again, just crosses the room and grabs him by the wrist, shucking the ice pack to the floor and pulling him into the bed. It’s gentle but it’s forceful and somehow he finds himself in between the two of them with his heart in his throat, wishing he had the fucking guts to tell them how he feels.

Clint shuts the lamp and presumably takes his hearing aids out. He lies on his back next to Bucky, and Bucky can feel the heat coming off of him. Natasha does him no such favor, and curls right up around his arm. It’s the prosthetic one and he–

“Shit, James, I’m sorry. Did you want–”

“It’s fine.”

He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. He lifts the arm best he can so Natasha can cuddle up next to him. She can probably hear his heart racing.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve, you know that?” It’s barely a question. He knows he’s an open book. An oversharer. Constantly unable to make school his expressions. It’s why he has to wear a mask on missions. “We see the way you look at us.”

Bucky tenses up, afraid to breathe.

“I told Clint that we should talk to you about it, but he insisted that you’d tell us when you’re ready.” She laughs softly. “But I was right, as usual. And it’s clear where your heart is.”

“Tasha, what the hell are you–”

Natasha hushes him. “It’s okay. We’ll talk in the morning. We shouldn’t without Clint.”

Bucky’s head starts to spin, but then Clint rolls over in his sleep and tucks his head right into Bucky’s side just as Natasha finally settles on his shoulder.

_Okay_ , he thinks.

Okay.


End file.
